


In Pursuit of a Pirate

by Iambic



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:35:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6245446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/pseuds/Iambic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the future head of House Montilyet, Josephine has no time for such trivial pursuits as <i>romance</i>—she must marry well, to bring the family back from the brink of impoverishment. So the beguiling woman she meets at the season's first ball has no business slipping into Josephine's dreams, and certainly not her life! </p><p>Josephine must choose between her duty, or risking everything she knows... IN PURSUIT OF A PIRATE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Pursuit of a Pirate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tofsla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/gifts).



> An enormous thanks to several people. You know who you are.

A fascinating evening, as the Game is concerned, but a lady can only make note of so many dalliances and romantic overtures before they begin melding into a single repetitive slough. Leliana, more a gossip and not quite cured of romanticism, of course remains entertained. Josephine considers wistfully a greater scandal. This past Drakonis and the already infamous theft of Glaisyer’s _Le Penseur Perdu_ come ever to mind—how Yvette had exclaimed over the debacle, all the way into Bloomingtide! And certainly some fortunes had changed, through the embarrassment and the ensuing panic to protect other such treasures by the unfortunate Laurents.

But if every event of high society featured such excitement, the thief would surely run out of either ideas or storage space sooner or later.

Josephine rubs at her temples. Perhaps a break is in order. She retreats to the second floor overlooking the vestibule, eschewing the distasteful punch for a glass of watered Tevinter wine. No, the excitement of the infamous theft—right out from underneath a house full of guests and impeccably trained guardsmen!—had resulted from the hue and cry as a great manor full of the very important and very high-strung all had sprung into action.

It had all been so very disorganized, but people in a panic, as it happens, respond very well to direction. There are so many who wish to show their mettle in a crisis. Such bravado can be useful, in the right place.

Here Josephine has no business being _useful_. Her mother had made this perfectly clear. Oh, my dear, practical Josie, there will be time to conduct your business, once you have married! And—her voice had firmed—more resources with which to do so.

She had looked significantly at her husband, who shares with Josephine the inability to sit still without a quill in hand or a plan of action in mind. But the Montilyets have ever bred strong women, and wise men who know better than to interfere with the running of the family. He had only smiled. Your mother, of course, knows best.

Another meaning, glimmering in her mother’s eye. Yvette hardly lacks for suitors herself.

Movement, at the corner of her eye; Josephine turns her head to track it, but sees nothing but conversationalists seeking the comparative breathing room she herself pursued. Had the lady of the house seen to concealed guards? It is so easy to believe oneself protected in one’s own home.

Josephine places her unfinished cognac down upon an intricately carved end table and stands up in a rustle of skirts. She stretches minutely. A lady might be permitted some small stiffness, but nothing suggestive of menial labor. And of course nothing that might preempt combat, of all things; that is the work of sisters and knights of the Chantry alone.

And bards, of course, but such a calling would be most unladylike indeed. Entirely unbefitting of a head of household.

When she turns around, however, she shakes her head at her own fancy—it is only another guest grown close to her, reappearing from behind the punch table. His clothing follows the latest fashion to a point, though his colours lean past _unseasonal_ to skirt _brash_ , pirate blue on Vyrantium samite and framed in a warm brown to offset his darker skin. His long and wavy hair he ties back. When he catches Josephine’s eyes upon him, he approaches with a swagger and a curving smile. His lips are very full.

An unfortunate cliché plays out: something of the man seems oddly familiar. Eyes from behind a mask, possibly. The Orlesians do love their masquerades, and it is not strange to think that the seaworthy might flee north for the winter. Whatever masks this man wears now, they will be entirely Antivan in execution, and his face will remain bare.

He takes her hand and bows to it, lips ghosting across her knuckles in a gesture Josephine knows is meant to charm even as she shivers with it. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

Oh. Well, Josephine has never claimed to match Leliana’s sharp eyes.

Hanging in the air, the sweet smell of pipe smoke. Beneath that, the merest hint of brine.

Josephine smiles, and dips in her own small curtsy. “How unhappy,” she says, “that it has taken us quite so long. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord.”

The woman before her laughs; a warm, throaty sound. “I don’t think it counts until we know each other’s names, sweet thing. _You_ can call me Isabela.”

Beware a man who keeps back his surname, Josephine’s mother has always said, which of course must also apply to a woman in a man’s dress. Certainly a woman who also chooses such an epithet for a lady she has only just met.

In the moment, Josephine finds she doesn’t care. She is a capable woman, after all.

“Josephine,” she replies. In this particular exchange, there seems less of a reason to stand on ceremony. “But tell me, Isabela, what draws you from the commotion downstairs?”

“I think I can guess what brought _you_ up here.” Once again Isabela lingers on the pronoun, widening her smile ever so slightly. How many women has she charmed thus? Her boldness alone must do half the job. Josephine could easily find herself tempted by Isabela’s words alone, and she has traded words with any number of charming men far more dedicated to sweeping her off her feet.

Perhaps the casual nature of Isabela’s overtures make for part of the appeal. It is if nothing else greatly refreshing to make a game of being pursued without the shadow of marriage into the Montilyet line to heighten the stakes.

Isabela traces her thumb over the back of Josephine’s hand—somehow, they have both neglected to end their contact. “As for me,” she says, “I can’t resist the chance to get a beautiful woman all to myself. Especially when that beautiful woman obviously needs a little fun.”

To her dismay, Josephine _giggles_ . Isabela’s thumb carries a rough callus and catches on Josephine’s skin, and she speaks without even an attempt at subtlety, and when Josephine looks back up to meet her eyes, Isabela looks _hungry_. She doesn’t even know Josephine, and wants her all the same.

Perhaps the matter of dalliance holds more appeal when one is participating. Were Josephine anyone other than the future head of House Montilyet, she might even have allowed Isabela to sweep her up into one.

A most inopportune timing. It would suit her to find a husband with whom she might also fall in love, but she need not—she requires a business partner. So it is not a matter of playing at romance, but rather of propriety. How uncouth it would be to carry out an affair while consenting to be courted! Once comfortably wed, there will be time to find love, or at least to find herself in the beds of other women.

Still, that wicked gleam in Isabela’s eyes…

Josephine looks down to their joined hands. A carved ring she hadn’t noticed on Isabela’s index finger, reminiscent of Dalish woodwork, does not fit the rest of Isabela’s jewelry. Gold looping through her ears, glinting at the side of her nose, in a thick banded collar styled to resemble two venomous snakes, bangles at her wrist—gaudy, but not at all out of place on a well-endowed (and how!) Antivan dandy. And then this wooden ring, notable for its subtlety.

Josephine has seen this ring before.

“Will you consent to walk with me?” she asks, to Isabela’s curling smile.

 

She leads Isabela to a balcony overlooking the gardens. It is well within the bounds of the soiree, but inconvenient enough to the ballroom that one might be discreet. No servant hovers here, though a tray of wine glasses has been left upon a small wrought iron table. Isabela passes one to her with a wink.

Such a space serves one of three purposes: a place to discuss sensitive information, a place to make covert arrangements, and a place for lovers to meet. The implications are not lost on Isabela, for the eyebrow she had raised as Josephine opened the door for her.

“It is something of a relief, to be removed from the attention of men,” Josephine admits after a touch of glasses and a sip of wine. “So often their conversation is only the motions of courtship. Practical, but it does grow tiring after a while.”

Isabela looks her slowly up and down as a dowager might a room full of eligible bachelors.  They are still far enough south that early spring turns cool the air, a welcome relief from the slow roast of the ballroom. It feels cooler, suddenly, against Josephine’s cheeks.

“Those men don’t know what they’re missing,” Isabela tells her with the manner of someone confiding in another a great secret.

Footsteps pass just outside the door, and a lady’s laugh rings out. Josephine holds her tongue until they have moved on.

“But you do.” Let it be a question. She lacks Isabela’s freedom to be direct in this regard. “You of course know exactly what they’re missing.”

With a step forward Isabela has moved into her space, not quite crowding but only by a scant distance. She leans against the balcony with that smile of hers, all charm and confidence, and Josephine does mourn the infeasibility of an affair. Isabela, like a shark, can smell this blood on the water. “Oh, sweet thing,” she says, a murmur not quite in Josephine’s ear, “the things I’ll show you.”

As delightful as this flirtation has been, it has come to its necessary close. The ballroom will be overwarm, and the balcony will no doubt be preferable, but there are other dances she must ask. There are, after all, a great deal of other things for Isabela to find that these men might miss.

“Tempting though your offer may be,” Josephine replies, “you may find a lady’s heart more difficult even than a Glaisyer to steal, even for such a rogue as yourself.”

And with this, Josephine steps around Isabela and walks back inside.

 

She had found a dance partner easily for the remainder of the night, all perfectly pleasant, or at least easily managed. Many of them even her peers. She had liked best dancing with an elderly retired admiral, though; he’d asked her slyly about the young men on her dance card, and then told a few stories of his own wayward youth that sent Josephine into helpless giggles, _most_ unbefitting of a young lady as herself.

It had been after this dance that Yvette found her, two glasses of the punch in hand. She’d given the full one to Josephine and touched it with her own, so that manners dictated they must both drink. A lesser woman might have made a face.

Sometimes, Josephine would like to have been a lesser woman.

“Oh, Josie,” Yvette had said, “stop being so _boring_ ! We are going to play some parlor games, and Adorno _asked_ for you by _name_.”

Over the years, Yvette’s pretty pout has lost its effect on Josephine entirely. But it had seemed a harmless enough diversion. Perhaps Yvette had managed to find a suitable candidate for her, but far more likely, Josephine had thought, she would allow this young man to flatter her and enjoy a pleasant enough diversion. Somewhere where temptation wouldn’t have found her.

As it happened, matters had worked out far better than she might have expected.

  


The sun has begun its descent, slow and lazily down the afternoon sky. With the spring has come warm weather, and no one of the traveling party wears a coat. Somewhat dangerous, too, for the afternoon heat has a soporific effect, and at best it would still be less than ideal to fall off one’s horse.

Or, somewhat more likely, to see one’s brother fall from his.

Of all three of Josephine’s siblings, Laurien talks the least—though, given the nature of both Antivans and Montilyets, this says very little indeed. He is a musician, but managed to inherit the family business sense, and makes a tidy sum playing cello for nobility and the wealthy, and on one alarming occasion, the Crows. Enough, certainly, to fund his fancies of becoming a skilled duelist.

“Signor Otranto is beautiful with a sword,” he is saying, awe in his voice. “Perfect poise, Josie. A little attached to the Orlesian chivalry, but with his skill it has never caused him to lose.”

He’s also something of a romantic.

“You make it seem as though you were the one hoping to be his bride,” Josephine says, mildly.

Laurien huffs, reproach lifting his thick eyebrows. “Someone should appreciate his finer qualities, if you will not.”

Adorno has many good qualities, and this Josephine will say quite happily. He will make a very competent business partner, he has quite the sense of humor, and when the time comes he has the makings of a fine father. It will hardly be a chore to take him to bed. But this is not what her brother means.

They reach the Otranto estate by the late afternoon, but it has begun to grow dark by the time they finish riding past the vineyards. Josephine’s skirts are irredeemably grubby, but this is to be expected after their travels, and one hopes that it will accommodate a less than tidy first impression.

If Adorno is put off, however, he kindly doesn’t show it when he greets them by the door, and neither do the grooms come to take their horses. He bends at the waist to kiss Josephine’s gloved hand regardless of the dust, and smiles warmly. It might have been nice, to feel a thrill at the touch of his lips, but that is scarcely an indication of a good match. After all, Isabela…

Josephine wrenches back control of her thoughts in time to return Adorno’s smile. Isabela has no relevance here.

Inside, Adorno releases them to his butler, who guides them down the hall and to a room to freshen up. Josephine changes behind a curtain from her travel clothes to deep blue skirts, a gold-embroidered coat over a cream-coloured blouse. She brushes out her hair before allowing Laurien to pin it back into place, and touches up the hint of kohl around her eyes. Only a very light outline—it won’t do to look _Tevene_ of all things.

With a final tug at Laurien’s cravat, they look sufficiently respectable, and Josephine opens the door again. The butler has waited for them. He bows slightly, and then gestures them along to the receiving room, where Adorno waits.

This time, he kisses Josephine’s cheek to bid her hello. Laurien’s dark skin turns faintly red when Adorno moves on to embrace him as old friends might.

“It is so good to have you both with us this evening,” Adorno says with a smile, which so far as can be told seems genuine. One of the reasons Josephine had found him a pleasant man in the first place; finishing school in Orlais had introduced her to their Great Game, which involves far too much artificial friendships and calculated romances for her taste. Even in Antiva, though, it isn’t easy to find an earnest man. Knowing both her own father and Laurien, the chances of finding another—at least, Josephine had assumed—were slim to none.

But here they are.

Adorno gives them an incomplete tour on their way to the pavilion overlooking the gardens, where apparently dinner will be served. “There,” he would say, for instance, “the library. I am very fortunate that after resisting my book-learning throughout my childhood, I was able to return to it, older and wiser.” Or, “My great-grandmother collected old artifacts and curiosities in the gallery ahead of us. There’s a carving in there she thought might have come from Seheron originally, and my cousins and I were terrified of it for years.” When they pass the practice galleries and Laurien hangs back in obvious, Adorno promises a match later on.

The house itself is lovely to look upon—white stucco walls and high ceilings, wide glass windows for daytime light, elegant chandeliers lit now for the night. Decorative plants sit in alcoves along the halls. Paintings line the walls, a balance between portraits of the family, one assumes, and landscapes that could easily depict the estate itself from varying seasons and perspectives.

It’s a delightful walk, but Josephine’s stomach is threatening to make itself heard by the time they reach the garden. Adorno steps through to hold the door for them, and then offers Josephine his arm again. With her hand at the crook of his elbow, they walk across the patio to join the rest of the family.

And, apparently, their other guest.

The first thing Josephine thinks, upon entering the pavilion, is that she will have to revise her previous assessments. Isabela, smile widening as their eyes meet, seems intent upon making herself relevant to as many aspects of Josephine’s life as possible.

The second thing she thinks concerns Isabela’s smile and an image entirely inappropriate to this company.

  


“You never mentioned how you met—Hakim, is it not?—how you met the Captain,” Josephine says, temptation getting the better of her. Across the table, Isabela smirks; she must know it also. Let her think she has the upper hand. It is best she learns not to underestimate a Montilyet.

A wide smile breaks across Dolores Otranto's face. Oh, dear. 

"Hakim was my chevalier in shining armor," she replies, and Isabela presses her lips together as if holding in laughter, or a secret. Most likely, it is both. Dolores continues: "I was set upon by robbers on the docks of Rialto, and the good Captain, if you believe it, steps out from an alleyway and draws his gun! I will never forget watching those loathsome men trip over themselves to flee."

Isabela flips her hand palm-forward. "Lorita, look at her face. Exaggerations are clearly not enough to impress our Josephine."

Perhaps Josephine ought to have bristled, or at least taken offence, but she finds herself laughing instead. "I have seen the docks of Rialto, signor. I would not have said anything, but in the light of your honesty... boys are often easily dissuaded from theft with the proper motivation."

“You are a most canny young lady.” Dolores reaches across the table to take Josephine's hand, missing with ease both their wine glasses and the candle besides. "I am so pleased my son has deigned to introduce us."

Josephine dips her head in acknowledgement. "Signora Otranto, the pleasure is truly all my own."

Dolores waves her hand in a wide arc. “I beg of you, Josephine, only Lorita. I feel old enough seeing my youngest child crafting his own business and seeking a bride.”

The smug look has departed Isabela’s face by now, leaving behind only the smile, and she turns to Dolores with wide, beseeching eyes. “Dearest Lorita,” she says, clasping Dolores’ hand with her own, “anyone with eyes to see knows very well that you’re in the prime of your life. You’ll have plenty of time to be old later.”

She looks again to Josephine, but this too is staged, conspiratorial rather than goading. Dolores is playing along, lined but dainty hand fluttering at her ruffled collar. A scholar, as Adorno had described, but also a vintner herself.

Josephine only pauses for a sip of wine. “You are a beautiful woman, in fine health,” she agrees, “and also, I am told, very accomplished. I suspect you have little to fear.”

Dolores laughs, bright and merry. “If you are trying to butter me up, Josephine, you are absolutely succeeding. But you have been terribly remiss in allowing me to introduce you to the dear Captain, when clearly the two of you have met.”

“Only very briefly.” Josephine glances at Isabela, who winks. “And I never managed to catch his name then, so truly, there was no cause to stop you.”

“Then, Hakim, it is _you_ who was remiss.” Dolores shakes her head, fixing Isabela with reproach in her expression. “Failing to introduce yourself upon meeting a lady is so uncouth, even for a sailor.”

A pair of servants come by to collect their empty plates, halting their conversation, and Josephine takes the opportunity to excuse herself. She touches Adorno’s shoulder as she rises, and smiles in response to his silent query before heading back into the manor itself.

She lingers in the blue-tiled washroom after carefully rinsing her mouth and face. There is time yet before the next course arrives, which she intends to spend without having to play along with Isabela’s false identities. Or indeed, Isabela herself.

Of course, Isabela has no interest in allowing her even this respite.

“Please refrain from robbing our hosts this evening,” Josephine says, without looking up, as Isabela leans against the washroom doorframe. “If this marriage goes through, they will be my family, and I will be obliged to take action.”

When she does look over, Isabela lacks her usual confident smile. She appears to be considering this with proper gravitas.

“But you haven’t,” she says at last, slowly. “You knew who I was, but you didn’t tell anyone.”

Caught out, Josephine hesitates. But then, how can Isabela use this against her? Only in their personal relationship, and only if Josephine allows it. In the flickering light of the oil lamp, the contours of Isabela’s handsome face deepen and soften in turn, and Josephine finds her gaze drawn again to those lips.

They widen to another smirk, but Josephine only smiles back, small and secretive, as Leliana might.

“I confess I felt no great need to protect any of the men present,” she replies, “least of all the host. And my sister delights in a scandal.”

Once again, the smugness leaves Isabela’s face, and she makes a noise of—approval? surprise?—before it returns. “Well,” she says, the single syllable laden with intent, “in _that_ case, I have an idea she would adore.”

She steps forward, and the washroom is not so large as to allow much space for two. Isabela’s presence takes up the better part of it. Kiss me, Josephine thinks, despite the inappropriate nature of it all.

Good sense and propriety demand she tell Isabela to leave, or walk out the door herself. This is, after all, the family home of the man who courts her, whose mother she and Isabela had conversed with only minutes ago.

“It wouldn’t do to indulge her too much,” Josephine says instead, and holds her ground.

Isabela laughs, that throaty chuckle, and there, there is the thrill Josephine has sought. It bubbles in her chest and down her spine.

“We can save it for later.” That laugh again. Isabela steps closer and slides two work-rough fingers across her lips. “Maybe her birthday. Give her a present she’ll never forget.”

Kiss me, Josephine thinks again, but she is the one to lean forward and claim it.

 

“Josephine!” Adorno calls, as she returns to the pavilion. “I had grown worried that you had lost your way.”

“Oh, most certainly,” Josephine replies, hiding her lingering smile in a larger one as she takes her seat next to his. “But the good Captain found me in the end.”

Across the table, Isabela winks her way.


End file.
